


The Fey Deceivers

by Dynamia Eromai (Demixian)



Category: Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Fandom, The Cursed Child - Fandom
Genre: (to get out of military duty....as you do), Fake Dating, M/M, Other, tw homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 16:05:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12987582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demixian/pseuds/Dynamia%20Eromai
Summary: Albus and Scorpius, wary of joining the army during the Third Wizarding War, must resort to acting like lovers in order to avoid the draft. Based upon the 1969 film 'The Gay Deceivers', this story follows their awkward endeavours to trick the Government, learning something about the community they are feigning membership to along the way.





	1. Getting Gay

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that a lot of the content in this fic is based upon and, at times, referenced from the 1969 film 'The Gay Deceivers', which was a remarkably progressive film for its time -- however, it would be considered less so these days. I aim only to capture the essence of the film, being its unique take on the desperation of men to escape the draft in America during that time and thus converting it into a story about two English wizards. Although Albus and Scorpius may 'act gay' in this fic in a way that appears stereotypical, this reflects only on the characters and their ignorance, which becomes understanding, tolerance and finally enthusiastic acceptance by the end.
> 
> Also, being gay myself, I love watching straight men attempt to 'act gay'.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Albus and Scorpius hatch a fool-proof plot to avoid the draft -- the only problem is, what good is a fool-proof plan to two fools?

 

 

It is 2024 and the kettle, like the Third Wizarding War, is on. 

 

Albus, responding to the kettle’s excruciating screech, takes it off the boil and pours freshly steaming water into two mugs, stirring each in turn with robotic rhythm. Once they have been brewed to satisfaction, he takes the small milk jug and adds a splash to each drink, staring listlessly at the billows of dissolving milk blend into the mixture and turn a dull tweed brown. After giving both of them another stir, he takes the two mugs and carries them slowly into the living room.

 

“This sounds odd, but I’m not really in the mood for tea,” says Scorpius, who is sprawled on the sofa facing the large balcony window, as he takes one of the mugs and sets it down on the table. “Thanks anyway, though.”

 

Sighing deeply, Albus takes a seat in the tattered arm chair positioned diagonally from the kitchen door. “I don’t know, Scorps. I really don’t know.”

 

“Well, we can’t just sit around until they come and seize us in our own home, can we?”

 

“But what else is there to do? File for injury? We’re in perfect health.”

 

“Poor us.”

 

“We could say we broke our wands — but they would only give us new ones, so scratch that.”

 

Scorpius shifts around a bit on the sofa until he is lying almost flat, his legs propped up against the arm rest. “Well,” he begins, turning himself to face Albus better. “What do honest-to-Merlin cripples do to get rejected from the army?”

 

“They break every bone in their body.” 

 

“So you can either get disfigured on a rain-soaked battlefield or in the comfort of your own home. I say we both jump off the terrace. We’re not high enough to die, just high enough to shatter our bones.”

 

“You must be sky bloody high to think I’m doing that.” Albus picks up his Pixie Pipe from the table and taps a small portion of Pixie dust into it before igniting it with his wand and taking a long, pensive drag. “Why do they have to be called ‘Pixie Pipes’? That name is so — well, you know.”

 

“What?”

 

Hesitant to reply in fear of sounding insensitive, Albus takes a pause and refills his pipe. Then, after taking a rather too hasty drag and causing himself to gag, he responds, “you know. Camp. Kind of…gay.”

 

At this, Scorpius’ eyes light up, and Albus is worried that he may have said something controversial. He is about to backtrack (after his third drag, of course) but is cut off before he can justify himself.

 

“That’s it,” Scorpius whispers, as if trying to contain the most amazing secret he has ever harboured. “That’s it, Albus! We need to get gay.”

 

Albus chokes. “Pardon?” A puff of pastel-pink smoke escapes from his lips as he says this, sparkling and filling the air with the intense smell of flowers and sugar. 

 

“I remember Dad telling me,” replies Scorpius, his eagerness mounting. “They still don’t let gay men in the army. They reckon they’ll — you know, fraternise with the other guys.”

 

“Nonsense,” Albus scoffs, waving his hand dismissively and shaking his head.

 

“It’s true!”

 

“That’s ridiculous. How can they let them marry each other but not go to war alongside each other?”

 

“Well, that’s life, isn’t it?”

 

“And — sorry, I know it's a bit inhumane, but surely there’s a spell that decreases libido or… I dunno, turns you straight temporarily. They could just — zap — and it’d be fine. Why is there a rule against it?”

 

“Why on earth are you questioning it?” Scorpius laughs incredulously. “Albus — there’s a way we can get out of having to join the army without severely injuring ourselves! How are you not leaping at the idea?”

 

Albus shrugs. “It’s just… It’s a bit of a cop out, you know?”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“Like, at least if you give yourself dragon pox or something, it’s like, 'look at him, he was so brave that he tried to get out of joining the army by getting a horrible disease'. But, like, nobody says ‘oh look at him, isn’t he brave for bumming that guy to get out of the army.“

 

“I think you’re rather missing the point.”

 

“I think you’re a bit too eager to pretend to be gay. You know you don’t have to fancy men to wear a dress, right?”

 

“I don’t — would you stop bringing that — look, you don’t have to have sex with anyone to get out of the army. It’s about who you’d like to have sex with.” Scorpius taps his temple smugly, raising an eyebrow at Albus. 

 

Reluctantly, he mimics the gesture in agreement. “I suppose you’ve got a point.”

 

“As usual.”

 

“But…but how do we convince them we’re benders, then? We can’t just bend them over the table and —“

 

“Oh, pack it in, for goodness’s sakes! Not everything is about sex.”

 

“What is ‘everything’ about, then?”

 

Scorpius considers this. “We need to dress like them.”

 

“Now, hold on —“

 

“I know, I know,” he says, holding up his hands defensively. “I’m not saying they all dress the same, but we’ve got to really push the image. And — well, we won’t need to be doing any bending over, Mr. Sex Drive, if they think we’re taken.”

 

When Scorpius does not elaborate on this, Albus sets his pipe down and leans forward on his chair, glaring at his friend severely. “What, exactly, do you mean by that?”

 

“I mean,” Scorpius presses, not quite meeting his eye. “If we — well, we could pretend to be…you know.”

 

“Scorpius —“

 

“Just for a bit, until they —“

 

“Not in a million —“

 

“Albus —“

 

“Scorpius!"

 

They glare at each other furiously, Scorpius now on his feet.

 

“All I’m saying —“

 

“No!” Albus barks. “Scorpius Malfoy, if you think for a second I am going to pretend to date you —“

 

“Well, why don’t you go get shot up in No Man’s Land and you can never date anyone again?”

 

This strikes a rather harsh chord, and the room (already scented with the sickening smell of lit Pixie dust) seems to echo with the silence that ensues. 

 

“You know I don’t want to do that.”

 

“Then let’s be gay,” Scorpius insists, taking Albus by the hands and shaking them forcefully. “Just until this stupid war blows over.”

 

It takes every fiercely heterosexual bone in Albus’ body to look his friend in the eye and finally reply, “fuck you.” This, of course, means yes.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Ever since their days at Hogwarts ended, sexuality and relationships suddenly seemed to drop from first place on Albus and Scorpius' list of priorities to, maybe, 25th place. At the top of the list nowadays are taxes, and rent, and groceries, and trying to play hooky from the Wizard army.

 

Neither of them have been much in the way of athletic, and their magical abilities are fine for two average adult Wizards but they aren’t anywhere up to the standard the Ministry of Magic’s armed forces expect.

 

Due to the drafting law of who-cares-when, all Wizards of or above the age of seventeen who have a licence to use magic — which is about eighty percent of the wizard population as of 2023 — are required to join the Wizarding armed forces in dire circumstances; an example of such a dire circumstance would be, as in this case, a war. Perhaps, even, the third instalment in a series of three great wars (that were only great in size, since if you knew the shit that went down during some of these wars you would be calling it anything but ‘great’).

 

These Wizarding wars are not to be confused with the Muggle world wars, which were merely trivial affairs. The Minister of Magic at the time of the one that began these silly little skirmishes even said, ‘this could all have been avoided if they had banned the Imperious curse in Austria’. 

 

The first two Wizarding wars involved a rather eccentric man named Voldemort, but the third (which started early one Tuesday morning when a Witch from the east end of London insulted another Witch’s wife on her gardening techniques) has absolutely nothing to do with him. Somehow, however, it has grown enough to create the dire circumstance in which the magical world of England is in need of soldiers.

 

This is all you need to know about the political state of the Wizarding world to understand why two wizards would go to the lengths some of them go to avoid joining the army.

 

“Name?”

 

“Potter and Malfoy.”

 

“Just one at a time, please.”

 

Albus glances over to Scorpius for reassurance before replying tentatively, “um, actually, Sir…we were rather hoping you could do us — draft us, that is — together?”

 

“I’m sorry?” The draftsman frowns.

 

“Please, Sir,” Scorpius insists with the most timid voice he can manage. “You see, we’ve been together ever since we were little, so it just makes sense that we were kept together throughout our military… Uh…”

 

“Escapades,” Albus finishes.

 

“Indeed.” Evidently unsettled, the Draftsman pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and flourishes the two documents before taking a closer look. “Is this a checkmark?”

 

He presents Scorpius’ paper to them, his index finger pointing to a question that reads ‘Have you ever had a homosexual experience?’, with two boxes labelled ‘Yes’ and ‘No’. Inside each box, a little star has been doodled.

 

“It looks more like a smudge to me, Sir,” Albus replies, smiling gaily.

 

The draftsman grunts. “So? Are you or aren’t you?”

 

“Am I or am I not what, Sir?” Scorpius asks, making sure to pronounce the ‘h’ clearly on ‘what’.

 

“You can read, can’t you?”

 

“Oh, yes, sir.”

 

“Well?”

 

“Well,” Scorpius replies, slowly taking off his round, rose-tinted sunglasses. “The question doesn’t ask if I am or am not anything, Sir. I mean, how do you define an ‘experience’?”

 

Albus bites his lower lip, furiously containing a laugh. 

 

“Have you ever had sex with a man?” the draftsman asks.

 

With a tiny giggle, Scorpius gracefully folds up his glasses and tucks them into the collar of his Hawaiian shirt. “Oho, well, that’s awfully matter-of-fact of you, Sir.”

 

“Have you or have you not had sex with a man — Malfoy, is it?”

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

“Well?” The draftsman’s raccoon’s tail of a moustache quivers as his impatience grows.

 

“Well,” Scorpius replies. “In a manner of speaking — no.”

 

“What about you, son?”

 

“Me?” Albus places a delicate finger on his chest. “Oh, chance’d be a fine thing.”

 

Scorpius shoots him a glacial glare.

 

“— But that’d be no."

 

“Alright, then,” the draftsman concedes. “If that’s all…”

 

Panic begins to rise in Scorpius’ chest, and he grabs Albus by the hands, caressing them ostentatiously. “Oh, Al, can you believe it? It’s our dream come true, we’re going to be in the army! At last! Oh, it’s going to be so much fun, living with all those men…”

 

The draftsman eyes them, his gaze edged with scrutiny. “Now, hold on. Why don’t you two lads go into that room over there and answer a few more questions with Officer Wilde here?” He gestures to the man standing behind him in a grey suit, who is also giving the two of them a good stare. 

 

They feign surprise and concern, but instantly set about following the Officer into another room to be questioned.

 

“We’re almost there, Scorp,” Albus susserates, just loud enough for Scorpius to hear. “I think I like being gay. These leggings have really boosted my self-esteem.”

 

“Be quiet,” Scorpius hisses, although he must admit his own flared white trousers make him feel like quite the rockstar. 

 

The Officer stops at a door labelled ’INT15’ and gestures for them to enter. “Just in here, boys.”

 

“What does the label stand for?” Scorpius asks.

 

“Muggle's rights,’ drawls the Officer, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just go in.”

 

The three of them enter and Officer Wilde presents Scorpius and Albus with two chairs opposite the desk in the centre, which he then sits at. As the two young Wizards sit down, he reaches into one of the drawers at his desk and takes out a brown file spilling over with papers. 

 

“I’m going to ask you a series of questions,” he begins, adjusting his tie and studying them closely. His eyes rest on Scorpius’ small triangle of exposed chest, where he has undone all the top buttons of his shirt. The Officer frowns. “It’s all basic procedure. Please don’t be alarmed by what I may ask."

 

“Of course not, Sir,” Scorpius and Albus chime in almost perfect unison.

 

Thoroughly unsettled by this, he turns to Scorpius and stares at him over the rims of his glasses. “Are you a homosexual?”

 

Scorpius bridles and blinks rapidly. “No.”

 

Officer Wilde turns to Albus and repeats, “Are you a homosexual?”

 

“Perish the thought,” he replies, clutching his chest and looking deeply offended. “Uh — Sir.”

 

“Right.” The Officer brandishes his wand and flicks it at a nearby quill, and it begins to scratch notes onto a piece of parchment beside him. 

 

Scorpius and Albus share a conspicuous look of concern before turning back to face him.

 

The Officer directs his attention to Scorpius again. “Do you ever wear women’s clothes?”

 

“I’m no drag queen, Officer,” he replies indignantly, raising his eyebrows and pursing his lips.

 

The Officer sighs, then turns to Albus. “How about you?”

 

Eyeing the hastily scribbling enchanted quill and refusing to meet the Officer's eye, Albus replies, “Don’t you think that’s just a bit… Much?.”

 

The quill speeds its work up, frantically flicking to and fro on the page. 

 

“Who do you prefer, in terms of friendship,” the Officer presses on. “Young boys or… Mature men?”

 

“Well, I think when you really love someone,” Scorpius replies, making sure to flick his eyes over at Albus momentarily. “It shouldn’t matter how old they are.”

 

Officer Wilde’s eyebrows are raised so high that they almost disappear past his receding hairline. “I see. And you, Potter?”

 

“Do I have to choose?” Albus asks, blinking innocently.

 

The questions continue for another half hour, increasing in absurdity as they progress. Then, the officer presents them with an image of scantily clad woman lying in a suggestive position on a chaise lounge, the tip of her wand resting against her lips. 

 

“What do you think of her?”

 

Scorpius, who has since put his rosy shades back on, takes them off very slowly again, his eyes widening. “Oh, that chair is heavenly.”

 

The Officer purses his lips, squinting at him warily. Then he turns to Albus and repeats his question, as usual.

 

Albus shakes his head, wrinkling his nose. “Hair’s too long.”

 

Another piece of parchment flies out of one of the drawers by itself and places it over the previous one, allowing the enchanted quill to continue about its work. 

 

Officer Wilde puts the picture of the provocative Witch away and then presents them with a picture of a man in a boxer shorts and nothing else, holding his wand against his chest and staring into he camera with a surly expression

 

“What do you —“ Wilde begins, however he pauses when Albus clicks his tongue and averts his eyes, holding up one hand and clutching his chest with the other. The Officer, rather taken aback, turns to Scorpius. “What do you think of him, Malfoy?”

 

Scorpius raises his eyebrows, sucking in his entire lower lip. “Well, aha, muscles have never really been my bag, but…” He giggles.

 

Apparently satisfied with this, Officer Wilde places the second picture aside, removing the enchantment from the quill and filing the notes away into a separate drawer. “That’ll be all, lads. Go back to the waiting room and we’ll call you in when we… Make a decision.”

 

As they stand up and make for the door, Albus pauses, turning to ask, “can I keep that last picture, Sir? I don’t have that one at home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've noticed, after the fact, that my reference to the notoriously gay Oscar Wilde through the character 'Officer Wilde' looks like a Zootopia reference. Alright, let's roll with that, I guess.


	2. The Whoopsie Routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Albus and Scorpius use their newfound freedom to enjoy themselves -- perhaps too much, in Scorpius' case.

 

The following night is spent celebrating their rejection.

 

 

With Abba blasting from the radio, a disco-lights enchantment on the living room lamp and the air thick with pixie dust smoke, Scorpius and Albus throw the biggest two-man party that the titchy little flat has ever seen in its short life as their home.

 

 

Scorpius is jumping on the sofa, cheering and chugging sparkling wine from the bottle. He still hasn’t taken the leggings off, but he claims this is only because he wanted to get smashed as soon as they got home.

 

 

“Here’s to going gay!” he announces, toasting with his bottle of wine as he goes to take another swig.

 

 

Albus, who is taking it very slightly more relaxed, sighs and collapses on the love seat in the corner. “I don’t know about this, Scorps. I really don’t know.”

 

 

“Of course you do, you great eejit,” Scorpius implores. “You’re gay now, it’s as simple as that.”

 

 

“Well, it’s not really, is it? I mean, I’m not actually gay.”

 

 

He rolls his eyes. “Cor, you’re a bit of a literalist, aren’t you? Lighten up, lover boy.”

 

 

“Don’t call me that.”

 

 

Scorpius stops hopping on the sofa at once and approaches Albus with a terrifying expression of confidence that is not often seen on his face. “I shall call you whatever I like, unless you want to go get your arse shot up in Korea.”

 

 

They stare each other down for a good minute as the tune to ‘Knowing Me, Knowing You’ fades out.

 

 

“Fine,” Albus says after a while, looking away at last. “Call me whatever you want, but I’m not nearly as into this act as you are. So, you know, don’t expect me to start pinching your bottom or something.”

 

 

“Works for me.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, the Potter family call at the local Quidditch field, where Albus and Scorpius have been earning their money for the past year. Not by playing Quidditch, of course, but by cleaning up the stands and greeting visiting teams.

 

 

Albus is rather pleased with himself as he embraces his father at the gate, dressed in the kind of smart robes one would see on a professor at Hogwarts. Perhaps having dropped out in their seventh year hasn’t quite earned him such an appearance, but nevertheless it seems to impress his mother especially so, as she cups his face in her hands before they too embrace.

 

 

“Where’s Malfoy?” says a swaggering James, his wife, Myrtle, hanging off his shoulder like a bat. 

 

 

Albus nods curtly at Myrtle, then at James, before replying, “he’s up in the stands, with some _friends_.”

 

 

At once, all the Potters glance up towards the forest of seats. In the exact middle of a circle of women about the radius of a round dinner table sits Scorpius, waving his arms about like a conductor as he cackles away with them.

 

 

“He’s quite the character, isn’t he?” Lily remarks, hugging Albus from the side.

 

 

Meanwhile, a quarter mile away, Scorpius has just finished a particularly hilarious (and fictitious) story about his ‘good friend’ to some rather pretty Quidditch enthusiasts.

 

 

“And this poof says, ‘but  _Sergeant,_ I’ve just been there, and they sent me back here, and I just don’t know where to go anymore!’.” The ladies squawk hysterically. “He says, ‘I’m so _confused!’._ ”

 

 

There is a sudden, ear-splitting _CRACK_ as Albus materialises before Scorpius, glaring him down — much like the Sergeant in Scorpius’ little tale.

 

 

“Oh, there he goes again, he’s so jealous,” drawls Scorpius, standing up to meet Albus’ glacial stare. “Excuse me, girlies.”

 

 

He takes Albus’ arm in a delicate, ostentatious manner, before they both disapparate to the middle of the field itself.

 

 

Yanking his arm away as the land clumsily on the grass, Albus snaps, “must you pull that whoopsie routine here? My parent’s have arrived.” 

 

 

“What’s wrong, Al? We’re out."

 

 

He grabs his still rather smug friend by the collar and drops his voice to a mere hiss. “ _Myrtle’s_ here, too. And Joanne will be appearing at the fireplace inside in a few minutes. so could you _please_ behave? I can’t have her getting… Ideas.”

 

 

Scorpius shoves him away, dropping his demeanour for a moment before returning to his former glow. “Alright, alright, I’ll play it straight for the future missus.” He narrows his eyes at Albus now, as if contemplating something. “What're you doing later?”

 

 

“Just taking Jo to the port.” Albus narrows his own eyes. “… Why?“

 

 

“Wait ‘till you see what I’ve got lined up for you,” says Scorpius, his eyes flitting over to the gaggle of girls waiting breathlessly in the stands.

 

 

Albus shakes his head. “No girls.”

 

 

“Why—“

 

 

“No girls,” he says firmly, “as long as we’re dodging duty, no girls in the house.”

 

 

Scorpius frowns indignantly.

 

 

“We could get _caught,_ Scorpius. This is bloody serious. No girls. End of discussion.”

 

 

With that, Albus spins on his heel, stumbling, before marching back over to his family to greet his fiancé, who is dusting soot off her rain jacket.

**Author's Note:**

> I've noticed, after the fact, that my reference to the notoriously gay Oscar Wilde through the character 'Officer Wilde' looks like a Zootopia reference. Alright, let's roll with that, I guess.


End file.
